Page 388 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Gio

"We’re not in love or getting married. And we’re certainly not setting a date. How did we even get here?" I spin around on my sock-clad feet and glare at the alphahole sprawled out on the bed. We’re back in our room in the shared house.

After that pronouncement, Grams didn't seem bothered when neither of us were able to assure her we’d set a date soon. Rick, however, managed to extract a promise from her that she’d tell us when she was going in for the surgery so we could be there with her.

After that, Grams seemed to tire. She didn’t push further about us setting a date for our wedding. We got through the rest of the meal, with Rick updating her about the London Ice Kings and the upcoming exhibition matches against the Islington Sentinels—Dennis’ team.

We exchanged glances when he mentioned the team name, but neither of us brought up Dennis.

Not during dinner and not on the trip home, during which we were both silent.

The meal was delicious, and despite my strictly regimented diet, I wasn't able to resist the sticky toffee pudding—a dessert I never had before. But it looked and smelled delicious, and before I knew it, I’d inhaled a couple of mouthfuls.

Then, Grams coaxed me into eating some more, and before I knew it, I’d wiped my plate clean. And instantly, I felt guilty.

I began to feel sick and stayed quiet on the way home, then managed to rush into the ensuite and turn on the shower so the sound of the water drowned out the noise of my retching.

It’s one of the reasons I was so reluctant to move into the same room as Rick.

So far, I’ve been good with what I’ve consumed, so I haven’t felt the need to stick my finger down my throat.

But I gave into temptation today. Blame it on Grams talking about our getting married.

I felt nervous, but also, something inside me loved the idea of being married to this man.

No, no, no I’m not going there. Apparently, faking it until you make it is real.

Faking it with this guy has made me feel like I’m in a relationship with him, which is why he mentioned drawing up boundaries on the way to Grams, of course.

Also, I don’t want to catch feelings on a rebound.

I trusted one man, and look how that turned out.

It’s not that I have feelings left for Dennis—contrary to what I hinted to Rick.

I did so, perhaps, out of self-preservation?

Because I didn’t want him to think I was open to catching feelings for him either.

As for Dennis, he doesn’t merit a second thought.

But I invested so many years in that relationship, and the betrayal has left me feeling raw and exposed.

Not that Rick is anywhere as unreliable as Dennis.

I haven’t known Rick for long, but seeing how caring he was with his Grams, how he played with Tiny at her place, and how he inquired after India and made sure she had everything she needed to support her role as Grams’ companion…

All of it made me realize, he's not in the same league as Dennis.

Rick is a much better man in every way. Too bad neither of us is ready for a real relationship yet.

After I empty the contents of my stomach, I jump into the shower, then pull on my stretchy pajamas and my comfiest socks. I pad out of the bathroom to find him sprawled on the make-shift bed on the floor. I take in his bare-chested torso and the pair of grey sweatpants he’s wearing.

Argh! Of course, he had to wear grey sweats.

Which mold to his powerful thighs and tent at his crotch.

Look away. Look away. I try. I swear, I do.

But I simply can’t stop my eyes from tracing the outline of that monster cock, which I know his sweats are hiding.

In fact, if I look closely enough, I can make out the crown of—

"I’m commando," he declares.

"What?" Fire engulfs my features. I manage to keep a straight face, despite my cheeks that are scarlet with embarrassment. I tip up my chin, walk past him and lower myself onto the bed.

"I don’t wear briefs to bed."

"TMI. TMI," I sing out.

"Didn’t seem like you had any problems with the information gathering when you were getting an eyeful of my pocket python."

"Pocket python?" I choke out the words. "Did you say—"

"Pocket python, or you could call it my moisture-seeking-missile, my hand grenade, my Garfield, my—"

"Stop." I sit up in bed and stab a finger at him. "You’re saying all this to shock me."

"Am I succeeding?"

"You’re succeeding in upping the cringe factor, yes."

"Why did you tell Grams we're in love?"

"Why did you tell our teammates we're engaged?"

He throws his arm behind his neck, and his biceps bulge. That wide chest of his might as well be carved from marble, as faultless as it is. If I were a poet, I could write an ode to it. But I’m a marketing and PR professional, so I reach for my phone and snap a picture.

He frowns.

"Why’d you do that?"

"It’s a great picture for your social media feed.

" I look up from perusing his sex-on-a-stick, faultless, click—jeez, the man looks delicious, and I’m not sure I want to share this picture for everyone to see.

"You look like a growlier Henry Cavill, if he had a bad attitude and a resting dick face. "

"A what face?" He glances down at his crotch. Typical man.

I circle my face. "Your face. I’m talking about your face. In fact, I’d say you have CRDF."

"Eh?"

"Chronic Resting Dick Face. When you always come across as disgruntled, angry and annoyed. Like you’re going to bite someone’s head off."

He leans back into his pillow. "Just because I don’t go parading around like some grinning idiot, doesn’t relegate me to the abjectly miserable."

"You don’t look miserable, just peevish, crabby and short-tempered."

He raises a shoulder, and that makes his muscles move like tectonic plates under the earth. Oh god, did I compare him to an earthquake? He certainly rocked my world when he made me come in my office.

My nipples pucker, and my lower belly clenches. I keep my legs still, making sure I don’t squeeze my thighs together. Okay, maybe a little bit. Just a little wriggle, but he catches it.

"Right now, you look hungry."

On cue, my stomach growls.

He looks at me with interest. "Are you hungry already?"

"No, no, that’s my stomach digesting my dinner."

Skepticism flickers in his eyes. "You sure? We can head down to the kitchen, and I can make you a sandwich."

"You don’t have to pretend to care for me," I say primly.

He frowns. "I do care for you. As a friend."

"So, if any of the other guys on the team were hungry, you’d make him a sandwich?"

"Nah." He turns over on his side and faces me. His sweats dip a little at his waist, baring more of that V-shaped Adonis belt of his, and that happy trail that disappears under the waistband and--

"My dick-face is up here," he drawls.

That blush sweeps over my features with a vengeance. "I was admiring the goods, is all," I say honestly.

He rakes his gaze down my chest, the space between my legs, my thighs, and by the time he meets my eyes, that blush is, once again, an out-of-control forest fire. "So was I," he replies in a low, hard voice.

The air between us thickens with unspoken words; the heat in the room seems to increase ten-fold. A ripple of heat eddies down my spine. All of my senses seem to pop, and I’m very aware of how he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me up.

Then, he squeezes his eyelids shut and shakes his head. "Shit, this isn’t working, is it?"

"If you mean setting up boundaries between us, yeah, probably not. Especially not when you’re—" I jerk my chin at his naked torso.

He glances down as if surprised, then reaches over, grabs a T-shirt and pulls it on. "Better?"

"Umm." I take in the way the soft, much-washed fabric clings to his shoulders, outlines his pecs and nipples, and traces the narrowness of his waist. I blow out a breath and close my eyes. "I’m too aware of you, and it’s all your fault. The way you dry-humped me earlier has made me hungry for more of the same." I open my eyes, then yelp, for he’s standing over me, arms over his chest. I didn’t sense him move.

For someone so big and bulky, he moves so lightly, he may as well be wearing skates, even outside the rink.

There’s hunger in his eyes, and also, frustration. "We only need to make this work until Grams gets through her surgery."

I nod slowly, "at least I stopped the fight with Denni—" His glare intensifies, I correct myself, "I mean my ex."

His features soften. "Were you worried about me?"

"Of course I was." I slap at his shoulder. "I’m wearing your ring. It means…something." Oh god, did I say that? How could I have let that slip? It means nothing that I’m wearing his ring. Nothing. This is an arrangement, that’s all it is.

So, why do I feel sick inside at the thought of him putting his life and his career in jeopardy?

A slow burn starts somewhere behind his eyes, until that cold fire crackles in his irises.

It feels like the dark blue air bubbles you see trapped under a sheet of ice.

Bubbles which ebb and flow and burst, lending intensity to his expression, the one that has always pinned me down and rendered me helpless to his influence.

"Forget it; it’s your life. Do whatever you want to do with it." I lower my hand and begin to turn away, then gasp when he clamps his fingers around my neck and pulls me into him.